Summary:

Ilya Rozanov has exactly one problem with his secret relationship with Shane Hollander: Scott Hunter has more fanfiction than them. The solution is obvious. They’ll just have to make the internet ship them harder. What could possibly go wrong? Or in which two NHL players discover AO3, decide to manipulate their public image to generate more fanfiction, and not so accidentally come out in the process. Featuring: competitive nonsense, live television mishaps, and one very distressed Scott Hunter. Ilya is sprawling across Shane’s ridiculously expensive couch in Montreal when he discovers the betrayal. “Shane,” he says, and his voice has that particular quality that makes Shane look up immediately from where he’s chopping vegetables in the kitchen. It’s the tone that means Ilya has found something on the internet that will derail their entire evening. “No,” Shane says preemptively. “You do not even know what I am saying.” “I know that tone.” Shane points the knife at him, then seems to remember that’s probably not safe and puts it down. “That’s your ‘I found something online and now I’m going to be weird about it’ tone.” “I am never weird.” “You spent three hours last Tuesday looking up whether penguins could be gay.” “They can be! Was important research.” Ilya sits up, phone clutched in his hand like evidence. “But this is different. This is serious.” Shane wipes his hands on a towel and comes around the kitchen island. He’s barefoot, wearing joggers and one of Ilya’s new Centaurs hoodies that he definitely stole, and Ilya’s heart does something complicated in his chest. It’s been nine years and Shane still makes him feel like he’s seventeen and discovering what want means. “What is it?” Shane asks, softer now, because he can probably see something in Ilya’s face. “Scott Hunter has more fics than us on AO3.” Shane blinks. “What?” “Scott. Hunter.” Ilya enunciates each word with deep offense. “Has more fanfiction than Hollanov.” “Hollanov?” “Is our ship name. Keep up.” Ilya scrolls aggressively through his phone. “Look. Scott Hunter/Kip Grady has one thousand two hundred thirty-seven fics. Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander has nine hundred and eighty-three.” Shane stares at him. “You counted?” “AO3 counts for you. Is right there.” Ilya gestures at his screen. “And is bullshit. We are much better love story than Scott and his little smoothie boyfriend.” “His name is Kip, and they’re cute together.” “We are CUTER.” “Ilya-” “No, listen.” Ilya stands up, pacing now, phone still clutched in his hand. “We are generational talents. Best rivalry in hockey right now. Everyone says. The media, they love us. ‘Rozanov versus Hollander, the new Crosby and Ovechkin,’ they say. We have drama. We have passion.” “We have to keep it secret or we’ll destroy our careers and possibly get death threats,” Shane points out. “Details.” Ilya waves this away. “Point is, we are interesting! Scott Hunter is old and boring-” “He’s thirty-one-” “ANCIENT. And he is with normal guy who makes smoothies! Where is intrigue? Where is fire?” Ilya spins to face Shane, eyes bright with the particular intensity that means he’s gotten an idea, and those are always dangerous. “We should have more fics.” Shane crosses his arms, and oh, Ilya knows that posture. That’s Shane’s ‘I’m going to be reasonable and you’re going to hate it’ posture. “We can’t have more fics because people don’t know we’re together. Because we’re not out. Because it’s complicated.” “Maybe is too complicated.” “Ilya-” “Maybe we should make people suspect.” Ilya’s grin is sharp and reckless. “Nothing confirmed. Just … little things. Hints. Enough for people to write about.” “You want to bait fanfic writers into shipping us more?” “I want to beat Scott fucking Hunter, yes.” Shane’s mouth twitches. He’s trying not to smile, which means Ilya is already winning. “You know this is insane, right?” “You love when I am insane.” “I really don’t.” “You love me.” Shane’s face softens, the way it only does when they’re alone like this, when the walls come down and he stops being Shane Hollander, Canadian Golden Boy, and becomes just Shane. Just his. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I really do.” Ilya closes the distance between them, and reaches down to cup Shane’s face. Ilya is four inches taller, which Shane will deny matters until his dying breath, but right now it means